I Loved You First
by yanizoid
Summary: He holds back a sob. "You were never mine to lose." {post-heist au, slight reference from rapid fire: crushed.}


It's been twelve years since he saw their first kiss.

Twelve years since his heart broke for the second time.

He watches her as she takes over the dance floor, lighting up the room with her smile and her melodious laugh that is music to everyone's ears.

Her movements are like waves, fluid yet strong as they move with the current that her partner gives. Her hands clasp her partner's wrist as she nearly falls over, and he remembers when her hand was holding his wrist instead of the other man's.

But he is not the reason why she smiles, she laughs; the light she emits cannot reach him any longer, and he is the one not twirling her around, holding onto her so she could not fall.

At the very back of the room, that corner where you can have countless numbers of drinks, he drowns himself with glasses and shots of wine, whiskey, vodka, rum, gin and tequila - anything to make him forget. His companions see him and they show no shame in being concerned for him, but he shrugs them off with another glass of wine.

Suddenly, the crowd behind him cheers and he doesn't need to turn to know that they're grabbing their partners as they make their way to the dance floor. By then, he is already downing a shot of vodka - is that even vodka? - or whatever it is he downed. He doesn't know what it is, nor does he care.

A light finger taps his shoulder and he takes one glance.

It's her.

"Hello," she says quietly.

He doesn't respond.

"I'm really sorry," she continues. He wears what's left of his courage on his sleeve and looks at her.

"Jake's a great guy, and you know that," she tells him.

He shrugs, asking the bartender for another round of whatever he has to serve. He can feel her looking at him, and he wants to yell accusations at him, at her, at everyone, but nothing comes out. It kills him a little more on the inside.

_Nevermind Jake,_ he thinks. _I loved you first._

* * *

For a moment, he doesn't know where he is. He notices the gold-rimmed furniture, the pristine marble below him. Women in black dresses and white, laced aprons bustle around, occasionally serving supper to him. He stares at the food in front of him skeptically, until he remembers that he is in his own home.

"I can't believe you're going," a girl snaps. He looks up to find his little sister rambling and he almost falls out of his chair. "I honestly can't believe you're going to Boston to see the Cahills and that you are leaving me here alone."

She rambles on and he finds himself replying to her, but he is saying the wrong words, as if he is being run by another person. "She can't... she can't leave America, Natalie. That would go against her parole. I've made sure. I've checked."

His sister sneers and says a few words he can't quite catch, then she storms out of the dining area.

Suddenly, everything blurs as if he is going through a tunnel in lightning speed, but he catches his mother smiling menacingly at him whilst wearing a black coat. _You! _he wanted to scream. _This is all your fault!_

Everything stops as he reaches another room with mahogany-rimmed furniture and potentially the same marble he was stepping on not too long ago. He spots his bed and and a telephone, and he, as if on autopilot once more, picks up the phone and dials _her_ number with a breaking heart.

"Hello?" she says. He starts.

"Hello," he replies. The wrong words tumble out of his mouth once more, even as he tries to stop himself, and his heart cracks with every word. He could hear her heart break too, and he looks away from the mirror in shame. She hangs up.

He crumbles down, knees shaking, tears forming and he falls to the ground, hitting his head on the table in the process.

Right before everything goes black, he thinks, _I'm sorry I let you go._

* * *

He wakes up with a start, head in his hands and red eyes. A massive headaches hits him and he yells instead of finding a way to treat his hangover.

_It was a dream,_ he thinks. _A horrible, horrible dream._

He hopes that last night, with all his drinks and pain and her laughter and glee, was just a dream too, but he recognizes the hotel suite he booked for a few days for her wedding, and look around for a possible hangover cure.

There, on the desk, is a note attached to a tray of food, breakfast, probably, and a few pills to relieve his headache.

_Jake looked up foods that you might like and could cure hangovers,_ the note said. _I figured that you wouldn't want to board a plane feeling _that_ terrible._

It was signed with a pretty name and a pretty handwriting he knows all too well and chucks the note into the trash bin. He holds back a sob.

_You were never mine to lose._


End file.
